The arena floor trembled beneath the weight of violence.
Bright watched from the eastern platform as two squads collided in the pit below—House Marlowe's "Crimson Fang" against an independent unit calling themselves the "Stone Wardens." The fight had been going for three minutes, and it was already over. Anyone with eyes could see it.
The Crimson Fang moved like a single organism—strikes flowing into blocks, feints bleeding into counters, every motion deliberate and drilled into muscle memory. Their captain, a silver-haired woman with cold precision, directed them with hand signals so subtle Bright almost missed them.
The Stone Wardens fought with heart. But heart wasn't enough.
A Crimson initiate swept low, hooking his opponent's leg. Before the man hit the ground, another Fang member drove a knee into his ribs. The Warden gasped, rolled—tried to rise—
A blade pressed against his throat.
The horn blared.
"VICTOR—CRIMSON FANG!"
